The Telegraph Travel section
It's close to the Costa Blanca, but it remains a deeply Spanish little city, says Sarah Barrell.

The Independent's Traveller magazine
Trailers without the trash: Sarah Barrell steps back in time for a taste of 1950s kitsch

The Independent on Sunday
San Diego may be less than two hours' drive from Los Angeles but it couldn't be further removed in spirit. West Coasters like to call the city "LA without the attitude" but this is to miss, entirely, San Diego's unique qualities. Nothing like its northern neighbour in layout, size, attitude or atmosphere, if San Diego had to be compared to any of its coastal compatriots it would perhaps be San Francisco.

...Babymooning
Palm Springs is one of those great American anomalies: an improbable desert settlement wedged between the folds of inhospitable mountains. It's as if someone came out here with a mind to build another Las Vegas, took a hot soak in the area's eponymous thermal waters and thought, "Bugger it, who needs neon?"

Ecuador's old colonial heart used to be a no-go area. But since it has had a makeover, it's a must-visit. Sarah Barrell goes exploring downtown

Roam the higgledy-piggledy streets, take in the views from the cable car, and dine at 10,000ft - don't forget your oxygen chase

At the beginning of September, the Hamptons resounds with the clatter of designer deck chairs going into storage, shutters being hauled down and the collective groan of Manhattan's chattering classes returning to the city. A cavalcade of overstuffed SUVs filters back through bridge and tunnel trailing Kate Spade beach bags and pedigree pooch accoutrements. Such unseemly seasonal migration isn't undertaken by the classiest second-home savants, however. The place to be, especially as fall comes around, is upstate New York.

Guyana's interior is pioneer country. Those who go are rewarded with elegant places to stay, says Sarah Barrell

In the Welsh town of Llanwrtyd Wells, if it's not the 'Man vs Horse Marathon', it's 'Morris in the Forest'. Sarah Barrell pays a visit

Sarah Barrell advises on the best places to spend, eat and rest in her adopted city of New York.

Avoiding the day-trippers who flock there, Sarah Barrell camps in the Galapagos and gets a fresh insight into everyday life

The clubbing scene has moved to Montreal. No, really. Sarah Barrell reports.

Old money, liberal values (well, arty ones) - that's the Hudson Valley. Sarah Barrell heads upriver to hang with the A-list.

Guyana's rainforest buzzes with the cries of piha birds, howler monkeys and macaws. Sarah Barrell treks to their exotic beat.

Ever since the General Lee lit up the grey evenings of 1970s British television with a burst of Georgia Peach orange and blast of Dixie horns, I have harboured driving desires. For the generationally challenged among you, the General Lee was the Dodge '69 Charger that belonged to Bo and Luke Duke, the fast-drivin', rubber-burnin' boys of Hazzard County.

An air of pre-party excitement always prevails on Virgin's Friday flights into New York return flights to New York JFK. You've watched Melinda and Melinda to get you in the mood for Woody Allen's Manhattan, ordered one too many glasses of bubbly, snagged a couple of hours' sleep, and by the magic of time zone change, you land at almost the same time you left. Hurrah! You get to enjoy that Friday feeling all over again, only with cocktails, yellow cabs, and a large serving of shopping on the side.

It's the middle of the night on the edge of the world. On the fringes of civilisation where man and beast have barely left a mark, 12 people are sleeping in small nylon tents. Pitched in the scant shelter of two towering mountains, the camp is at the mercy of the elements; and here on the edge of the world, where the steppe rolls relentlessly towards the horizon, the elements aren't that accommodating.

The Mykonos wallflower: a lesser-known species of Cycladic flora, with bright, gaudy petals and showy blooms. Drab in appearance and prone to wilting.
Three days after stepping onto Mykonos's shimmering sands, I was ready to leave; the living, sighing embodiment of the maxim, you're never more alone than when in a crowd. And in a crowd of near-naked, amphetamine-addled, touchy-feely friend-seekers, this was a crushing realisation.

In the 1950s the 'Flying Swami' left India to bring yoga to the West. Half a century on, his ashrams are visited by thousands worldwide every year. Sarah Barrell gets spiritual in upstate New York.
A steaming figure stands in the sauna doorway. He is almost entirely enveloped in a cloud of hot air. I follow him back inside and pull the door shut. As the vapour clears, introductions are made and the conversation ambles from the weather (brutally cold) to yoga classes (hotly anticipated) and the view (blissful wilderness).

It's dusk in the Ecuadorian cloud forest, and, as far as the untrained eye can make out, high tide. We are, in fact, several hundred metres above sea level. But standing in a small clearing in a forest that carpets a sharp, pyramidal mountain, you could be forgiven for thinking you'd been cast out into the misty Pacific. White nebulous matter rolls out around us like a milky sea, obscuring the neighbouring peaks and mossy valleys below. It's all I can do to stop myself stepping off the edge and stretching into a languid breaststroke.